


Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #7

by DovahDoes



Series: Quote-Inspired Fics (& Ficlets) [7]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rook is Actually a Tourist Destination, Candles, Crack, Domestic, Established Relationship, Hiking/Tour Guide!Vaas, Like the premise is pure crack, M/M, Skydiving Instructor!Jason, They're not used sexually believe it or not, but it's off-camera, there is sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 10:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12863031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: Seventh in the series of Quote Challenge responses.*Vaas has had a long day at work, trying to keep stupid tourists from touching poisonous shit or getting eaten by big, hungry shit, and just wants to relax for a few hours in peace.  Sowhydoes his home smell like fucking smoke,again?ORA local fundraiser is the catalyst for Jason Brody to find a peculiar new hobby/money sink.





	Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #7

**Author's Note:**

> So I post a lot of quotes on my FC3 tumblr, and I thought that it might be a good exercise/learning experience for me to use them as inspiration for some fics and ficlets.
> 
> Hence, this little series~.  
> *
> 
> So yeah. Vaas and Jason are happily married, working under Hoyt Volker's gigantic tourist trade company (resorts, guided activities, buses, entertainment, etc.). Citra, runs the competing company, obv, and is sore at Vaas for jumping ship, but doesn't want to literally _kill_ him in this AU. haha.
> 
> (I blame that 'come visit my fucking island, bring your fuckin kids' line from [Far Cry: the Experience](https://youtu.be/6C6mraTsxq8), for this. It spawned about a thousand Rook is a Tourist Destination-type AU's....)

 

_**“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” –Confucius** _

**___________**

 

The smell of smoke is by no means an unfamiliar scent to come home to for one Vaas Montenegro-Brody, but it is _also_ not doing anything to help him decompress from an already overlong day of trekking through thick, temperate forest in a very tropical climate.  (Not to mention the stress of keeping a group of adults from getting eaten alive by the very same jungle— something eminently important, even considering the obligatory waiver they’d all signed that warned of that very scenario.)

 

“¡Ay— que _chingados_ , Jason??” he groans, mostly to himself, allowing his heavy utility belt to drop to the wood floor of the entryway.

 

The dirt and debris-covered Rook islander hastily uses one foot to nudge the well-worn canvas-y material under a small side table as he makes his way toward the source of the cloying smell permeating the shared residence, all the while muttering an oft-repeated litany of complaints.

 

“How is it that that someone so fucking obsessed with all that pyro shit has no idea how to regulate a contained source of combustion that is _literally_ designed to be safely operated? This shit happens at least every other week, I swear to...”

 

Entering the kitchen is surprisingly non-hazardous to Vaas’ respiratory system, despite the heavy smell of something recently singed that lingers in the air.  In fact, both the stove and sink are suspiciously clean— spotless, even— considering how something had _definitely_ been burned to a blackened crisp, recently.

 

Eyebrows furrowed and head at a slight angle, the seasoned jungle tour guide slowly gazes about the kitchen, noting not a single thing is out of place.  (Typically, Post-Pyro-Incident-Jason leaves a trail of sooty, overlooked messes in his wake, from stove-top to sink drain.)

 

“What… the _fuck_. Where is this coming from?” Vaas turns and heads in the direction of the master bedroom and takes the time to look for any sign of where in the _hell_ the smell of something left aflame for too long is coming from. “ _Jason_!”

 

Something large and definitely fragile hits the ground with the universally wince-inducing sound of shattering glass.  Almost concurrently, but a great deal louder, his errant partner’s voice bites out a brief interjection consisting of four letters.

 

“Ah, shit!”

 

To say that Vaas is very confused when he walks into his bedroom would be an understatement.  On the very sizable king size bed sits his significant other, legs splayed while he sorts through what looks like half a dozen soup can-sized candles that are strewn about his figure.

 

“Hey! What the _hell_? That was my favourite one!” the disgruntled (or as his husband might say: pouty) man intones, “ _Now_ what’m I supposed to use in the bedroom?”

 

Deciding that nothing makes sense anymore, Vaas simply makes his way to the collection of shattered glass, camo-patterned paper strips, and the cylinder of khaki-coloured wax that lays near the right side of the bed.  Carefully, he uses muck-coated hiking boots to clear away the more widespread shards of the jar, and then crouches down and pinches the edge of the mostly intact label in order to turn it right side out.

 

“Vaas!  Are you even listening to me?  I just got all of these for the house and you totally just ruined one!  Do you know how much these fucking cost?  Or how hard it was to get them imported all the way out here?”

 

Truth be told, Vaas’ greatest skill in life— according to himself— is tuning out Jason in the middle of one of his fairly frequent conniption fits.  So he makes repeated use of it.

“… ‘Bacon Cheeseburger’?  Jason, what the _fuck_ did you buy?  What is this stupid shit, mm?” he asks, lifting the label up higher and squinting at it.

 

As quickly as he began berating his perplexed and irate other half, the middle Brody brother’s demeanor shifts again.  Excitedly, he whips out a coloured sheet of paper— a brochure or catalog is looks like.  Hastily, he turns it over so that the back is visible to his bedmate, who is now looking at him with one scarred brow making its way up his forehead.

 

“Okay, so check these out!  One of the kids from a neighborhood over was selling candles as part of a school fundraiser, and most of ‘em kinda’ suck, but there’re all these _other_ ones—“

 

Vaas rights himself and leans over the bed’s edge to get a closer look, muscular forearm planted on feather-soft bedding, resting nearly parallel to his lover’s leg.  He notes the title over the lower half of the page, where he can see the images of several candles that match many of the ones scattered across the bedsheets.

 

“Okay.  So let me get this shit straight, hermano.  You blew— ah, something like— what, fifty or sixty bucks-”

 

“Uh.  Like, seventy-eight including tax,” comes the feeble correction from his side, conspicuously sans any of the fiery eye contact so readily doled out earlier.

 

“Agh!  Querido, this is just like that time you drank that weird shit Citra gave you and went shopping on Amazon Prime Day.  Remember that?  We had to return $300 worth of— what are those little things— ah!”  When he shifts to rest even more of his weight on his forearms and get a bit comfier, something cold and round suddenly rolls into his arm and rests against the limb, its cool glass providing a refreshing bit of chill on a tepid day.

 

“Shibari, actually.  Ahaha.  The, uh, Japanese rope stuff’s called shibari, I think,” Jason muses, face definitely closer to red than not, his complexion giving him away, as always.  Clearing his throat and trying to move past the reminder of why he’s not allowed near certain websites that have “one-click ordering” when he’s anything other than stone cold sober, he surreptitiously glances down to see what has caught the attention of the other male.

 

“Huh.  This, uh— what _is_ this one?  Gun Powder?  Wait, what— they have a _candle_ for this?? Holy _shit,_ Jason.”  Vaas grins excitedly (manically, really, by most people’s measure) and raises glittering jade green eyes to meet his lover’s. “What other good ones did you find, Cariño?  And I guess this means that smell out there must be one of these things, eh?”

 

Jason sits forward, straightening his posture a bit, and picks up his two favourite scents, a spark of excitement returning to him now that his lover seems more receptive to his (admittedly impulsive) bulk purchase.  He sets them on the bed, upright, to prevent any more incidents with the edge of the bed, gravity, and a hard floor.

 

“Uh, yeah.  The one that’s burning out there is a campfire, one, but it kinda’ smells more like just straight up smoke?  So anyway, these two are the best, probably,” the lanky skydiving instructor indicates each candle in turn, as he names them.  “This one’s called ‘Kentucky Bourbon’, and this one is ‘Frat House’; cool right??”

 

Looking down at each of the oversized jars full of wax, Vaas is unable to resist chuckling at at least one of his husband’s favourite fragrances.

 

“Really, Corazón?  _Frat House_ scent?  Missing your natural habitat that much?”

 

The other man huffs, rolling his eyes and manfully resisting letting his face fall into the pout that he _knows_ will entice yet _more_ shit-giving from the man now leaning into his side.  _Every_ time with the ‘California frat boy’, thing.

 

“Vaas, you _know_ I was never actually _in_ —” the defensive man yelps as his lover decides to suddenly vault onto the bed, fully, fitting himself over his own now-prostrate body.  Jason’s splayed legs act as a convenient cradle for his lover who now leers down at him, forearms on either side of his torso.

 

His lover tilts his head to one side, resting it on a now-upraised palm.  Several of the silly-scented candles clink against one another as they roll toward the point of increased pressure and weight that dents the mattress at his elbow.  Jason swallows, feeling a bit of his flush from earlier return to his face, very likely starting to head down toward his chest, as it often does.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know: stereotypical white boy broke out of the box a bit and did volunteer-work and other fancy shit.  Congratulations.”  Wondrously built biceps flex and relax as the older man shuffles up, slightly, and lowers himself properly so that the majority of their bodies lay flush to one another’s. “So, ah… the most important question here is ‘which one of these are we gonna’ burn, today, when we fuck’?  Mm?”

 

“Ah, we— ah.” Jason blindly grabs the very first one his fingers brush against. “This one!”

 

He lifts it up, slightly and they both turn to glance at which one had been unwittingly picked out of the pile of oddly-odoured candles.  Vaas raises a skeptical eyebrow at the bold, white text spanning the orange and yellow label, but lifts up, briefly, to better allow his lover to place the glass jar on a bedside table and hastily set the small wick aflame with a nearby lighter.

 

Seconds later, he finds himself on his back, staring up at his lover, his green-blue eyes burning bright with passion, hair already slightly sex-mussed, somehow.  The large, rounded container digging into his lower back is summarily ignored in favour of loudly groaning into the passionate embrace he finds himself engaged in.

 

*****

 

Panting and sweaty, Vaas continues carding his fingers through the soft, chestnut locks of his thoroughly tired out lover.  The middle Brody boy is often nearly insensate after any love-making even approaching vigorous.  Luckily, he is married to someone who finds it endearing to see him so intensely mellowed out by post-coital lassitude.

 

The Rook native cracks an eye open and wrinkles his nose, leveling his gaze at the candle nearby, its flame flickering rapidly in its translucent, high-walled glass prison.  Burnished, carnelian skin shifts over corded sinew as he reaches over with a thumb and forefinger he has just slicked with saliva, and snuffs the tiny source of light just to their side.

 

His partner of four years grumbles at being shifted off of the magnificent set of pectorals that have been serving as a pillow for several minutes, and resituates himself to roll over in the same direction Vaas has turned in, using long arms to pull his body flush to his paramour’s.  He makes a point to give a little retaliatory nuzzle to the muscled back before him, heavily stubbled face sure to cause at least a bit of discomfort.

 

Said male, comfortable in his new position as ‘little spoon’, having summarily left the previous one as Jason’s body pillow, simply moves the tattooed arm hanging over his side, so that his own can lie alongside it.  He grasps the other male’s hand in his own and bring it up to lay a kiss rife with the full depth of his regard along the side of lightly furled digits.  (Neither of them are so great with their words, as far as expressing any sappy feelings, but actions— even tender ones— are easier to deal in.)

 

“Jason,” he muses aloud, only partway certain he’ll receive a coherent response.

 

From behind him, a gust of air hits the patch of skin somewhere between his shoulder blades, accompanied by what one could very loosely define as a sound of acknowledgement.

 

“Jason, I… am gonna’ need you to throw that piece of shit fucking candle out before we go to bed, later tonight.  Fucking _fuck_ , man.  Who the _fuck_ buys a ‘Stripper’-scented candle, anyways?  Huh, Jason?  …Cariño?”

 

The only response is a quiet snore moving the air at his back.  He sighs, muttering to himself, as he extricates his body from the lanky limbs impeding his efforts to leave the bed.  When he finally escapes, he deftly pushes one of his own pillows into his lover’s arms and cannot help but to find it charming when the younger man curls up even further around it, even as he quietly continues his diatribe.

 

“Agh!  Fuck, who the hell even wants to buy this weird one, anyway,” he demands of the air around him as he picks up the candle from the short dresser before him and sets out for the kitchen.  “Like, what the fuck do people even think a stripper smells like?  It sure as fuck isn’t _this_ cheap-ass shit— smells like every fucking bottle of ‘island perfume’ in the tourist trap gift shops…”

 

Even the sound of glass breaking at the bottom of the recycling bin several rooms over does not rouse the sleeping man in bed, who rolls over, again.  A small grin marks his expression as the Vaas in his dreams twirls expertly around a stripper pole in a particularly satisfying fantasy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

([Here](https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3644/3385792662_c162906c64.jpg) is the ‘Stripper’-scented candle.  All the mentioned candles (above and next) actually exist! Haha.)

 

Also consider that Jason likely bought several of these other scents: **Cannabis** (Vaas pointedly looks at Jason and lights a bowl with _actual_ weed in it), **Cognac Cubans** (smells like their boss, Mr.Volker’s, office- yikes), **Leather Jacket** (‘Christ’, white boy— is this candle giving you a _boner?_ ), **Bacon** (thumbs up from all parties), **Pizza** (Vaas shakes his head and Jason is mildly disappointed by the smell), **Beer** (in a similar vein as the Cannabis one, Vaas prefers the actual thing),  **Newsprint** (‘Why the hell did you pay to make our house smell like wet paper?’), **Peeps** (surprisingly pleasant, sweet scent), **Nachos n Cheese** (both gag the moment this one is lit and it takes hours to air the house out), **Calamine** (‘Smells like your tour groups, right?’ ‘Or like you the first year _you_ lived here’ ‘Fucking— hey!’), and **Gun Powder** (as we saw, Vaas really likes this one, and Jason’s a pretty big fan, too).

**Author's Note:**

> It's another case of me cleaning up my hard drive and finding unposted, old fic sitting around, covered in dust. Working on updating the [Detours](http://archiveofourown.org/series/719115) 'verse  
> , though.  
> (Wish me luck-- s'been a while since I've dived into writing in this fandom.)  
> *
> 
>  
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> (Still no beta, here, btw.) As always, I will love you forever if you leave me some kudos!


End file.
